


Dance With Me

by xmoomzix



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Kissing, M/M, Neck Kissing, Nipple Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-12
Updated: 2016-10-12
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:00:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8270122
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xmoomzix/pseuds/xmoomzix
Summary: “Dance with me.”Sherlock stands and takes John’s hand, resting his left hand on his shoulder. They sway slowly, letting the pensive and atmospheric tones of  a cello (Strauss’s Romance in D Major) wash over them. John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck, inhaling his scent. He smells fresh and clean, like the soap he prefers. His arms trail up and link around his neck. Sherlock steps closer, pressing himself flush against him.
   Written for a tumblr writing prompt - Sherlock and John dance together, then things get a little hot.





	

“Dance with me.”

Sherlock stands and takes John’s hand, resting his left hand on his shoulder. They sway slowly, letting the pensive and atmospheric tones of a cello (Strauss’s Romance in D Major) wash over them. John rests his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, nuzzling his neck, inhaling his scent. He smells fresh and clean, like the soap he prefers. His arms trail up and link around his neck. Sherlock steps closer, pressing himself flush against him.

The first time they had danced was after Sherlock came back, rehearsing for John’s wedding. It hadn’t been nearly as intimate as this one; it was merely a dance shared by friends. At least, that was what John had thought. One of his hands rests lightly on the small of Sherlocks back. The other travels up the planes of his back to the nape of his neck. His fingers thread through the impossibly soft curls then lifts his head, their gazes meeting.

Their mouths touch delicately, barely brushing. John’s lips are chapped a bit, but that hardly matters, because his next kiss is far more firm, more confident. The first kiss was a query; this one is a demand. He gives and takes what they have both wanted for months; years, even. Sherlock parts his lips under his onslaught, but it is hardly a surrender; Sherlock has waited too long for this to be anything less than an active participant.

They are no longer dancing. Instead, they stumble toward the couch, barely managing to avoid the coffee table. John sinks down onto the cushions, pulling Sherlock on top of him. He finally breaks the kiss, only to trail his lips down his neck, giving plenty of attention to the freckles that make Sherlock gasp and press himself against him.

Sherlock reaches between them with feverish hands and undoes the first few buttons on his crisp cotton shirt. The silvery dusting of hair on his chest draws his attention. Sherlock traces the whorls with his fingertips, then lowers his lips to the hollow of his throat. He suckles and licks at what seems to be a sensitive spot, and smiles against his skin as John’s groan vibrates through his lips.

During their mutual explorations, Sherlock’s shirt has ridden up, exposing a sliver of pale skin. He sighs as John slips his hand down the back of his pants, cupping the roundness of his arse. The other hand lazily trails up his back, over his shoulder and down the front, eliciting a moan as he finally pauses, stroking him through the thin silk of shirt, thumbing his peaked nipple.

Sherlock sits up. His hair is unkempt, his eyes heavy-lidded and sparkling, and his lips swollen from his kisses. He does not notice the way John’s eyes darken as he takes him in, for he is too focused on unbuttoning his shirt. Sherlock smiles triumphantly at his success, and returns to mapping any skin within his reach. So intent on his exploration, Sherlock doesn’t expect it when John dips his fingers between his cheeks and strokes the rim of his hole. He jumps and gasps as John presses two fingers against him, not enough to breach but plenty of pressure to make him shudder. John begins to rub the tight knot rhythmically, and Sherlock drops his forehead to his shoulder and whimpers. His hips begin to move in time with his fingers.

“Oh, oh, oh… John, please… yes… oh, God… don’t stop… more… please…”

John pauses for a moment while Sherlock pants with need. His fingers move again, more quickly this time, dipping the very tips inside occasionally. Sherlock can feel himself spiralling up, up, up, so close, just a little further…

His stomach sinks as John removes his fingers and his hand retreats from his pants but John has a plan. Sherlock’s jaw hangs slack as he watches John suck on his own fingers, his gaze practically smouldering as he makes a show of it, darting his tongue between each digit and thoroughly coating them in saliva. 

As Sherlock quickly saves the visual data to his mind, John’s hand resumes it’s position and this time slides a finger straight into the heat of his arse before the saliva dries too much. 

“Oh!”

John twists and curls his finger, until Sherlock is trembling then adds another, stretching him open. The two fingers work together to find the sponge-like texture of Sherlock’s prostate and massage the area, causing Sherlock to cry out and clamp his thighs around John’s. Poking his tongue out, John focuses on the same area, pulling his fingers part way out and twisting them back in again to repeat the massage.

Sherlock is a quaking, glorious sight above him, features flushed pink and lips moist and swollen. It only takes one more thrust. The tension that has been within him all night, building with the anticipation, shatters, and he rasps John’s name as he comes in his pants.

As his breathing calms and his heart rate slows, he feels John stroking his back, soothing and brushing away any embarrassment at having come from such a simple act. Sherlock parts his lips and flicks his tongue against John’s neck, tasting him. He grunts, and his other hand squeezes his hip. Sherlock smiles wickedly and slithers a hand between them, unbuckling John’s belt.

John catches his hand. “Let’s move to the bedroom. I’m too old to do this on the couch.”

“You’re never too old to do it on the couch,” Sherlock protests weakly, wanting to reciprocate the pleasure given to him.

John laughs and nudges him off his lap. "Tell that to my back in the morning.”

They make their way to his bedroom. Once the door closes behind them, the moon is the only source of illumination. Sherlock turns to John and licks his lips. John stands before him, backlit by the moonlight. His face is shadowed, but he can make out his glittering, intense eyes and crooked, knowing smile. His shirt is unbuttoned and hangs off his broad shoulders. His belt is unbuckled, and his pants are distended at the front. He looks positively sinful.

John slowly shrugs the shirt off his shoulders, then begins to remove his pants. Sherlock raises shaking hands to the zipper on his own pants and removes them along with his shirt. A moment of sudden shyness fills Sherlock’s cheeks with warmth as he looks away.

“Sherlock” John’s whisper breaks the electrified silence. “You’re so beautiful. Look at me.” Sherlock’s eyes travel up his body, clad only in boxers, to meet his gaze. John steps towards him and takes his hand. Pressing it to his shoulder, he says, “You’re not the only one with scars, sweetheart.” He can feel shiny, smooth tissue beneath his palm, and under that, his heartbeat, slightly elevated.

“So beautiful,” he repeats. Sherlocks eyes lower, and John cups his cheek. “Your body is lovely, Sherlock” he murmurs, “but you are amazing.”

Sherlock smiles, a soft, uncertain smile that says he doesn’t fully believe him, but he’ll take his word for it. His free hand strokes John’s jaw, feeling the stubble scratch his fingertips. He kisses him softly, thanking him without words, then leads him to the bed.


End file.
